The Shadowcutter (34 page)

They had raised their voices in this last exchange and Major Vernon stirred and woke in the great bed.

Sukey threw him a reproachful glance, as if it was all his doing.

“What time is it?” Major Vernon said, hauling himself up onto his elbows, looking about him.

“After six,” said Felix.

“How are you feeling now, sir?” asked Sukey, helping him to sit up. “You look a great deal better, I must say.”

“Weak, but that headache is gone, thank God,” said the Major.

“You should take some beef tea,” she said, and went and busied herself fetching it.

Felix checked his temperature and pulse.

“The fever has passed for now,” he said. “I cannot guarantee it will not return, though, and your best defence against that is absolute rest for the next day or so.”

Major Vernon nodded wearily and took a cup of soup in an unsteady hand.

“Lady Warde will have to wait,” he said, after taking a drink. “But perhaps that is to our advantage. I have a job for you, Mrs Connolly, and perhaps you too, Mr Carswell, since I don’t suppose you will be dining with the family tonight.”

“No, Lady Rothborough was clear on that point,” said Felix.

“Excellent,” said Major Vernon. “I want you both to search her room while they are all at dinner. I want you find out all her secrets – for she is keeping some, I am sure of it, and she may be the key to this whole business. A bloodstained dress ripped up and hidden is too interesting a circumstance by far, don’t you think?”

Chapter Thirty-two

“Major Vernon, should you be out of bed?” asked Lady Rothborough.

He had timed his entrance perfectly. Just the ladies were there after dinner. His appearance in dressing gown and slippers was enough to make the Marchioness drop her sewing and rise from her seat. He had caught a glimpse of himself in a pier glass in the adjoining room and he looked sufficiently crazed for this escapade. The young ladies looked equally startled. Yet Lady Warde remained in her corner, her head bent over her work, apparently unperturbed by his invasion.

“That tune, Lady Maria,” Giles said. “I have to know what it was.”

“I know you should not have played,” said Lady Rothborough.

“I ought not to have played,” Lady Maria agreed, closing the piano. “I have disturbed you.”

“I am glad you did. Laura would not like you to have stopped – and in music we have a way to deal with our grief.”

“You look very unsteady, sir,” said Lady Rothborough. “You ought to sit down.”

“I think I ought, ma’am, yes, thank you,” said Giles, and allowed Lady Rothborough to guide him to the sofa. “Forgive me for troubling you. I am not entirely myself.”

“How can you be, in the circumstances?” she said. “This terrible business – such a loss for you, sir,” and she took his hand and patted it. “You have been in all our prayers.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

He glanced across again at Lady Warde, and saw how she still did not look at him, from her quiet corner.

Then suddenly she rose and approached the door.

“Would you excuse me, dear Catherine?” she said to Lady Rothborough. “I have some letters to write.”

She was taking flight already. He felt all his instincts were validated in that moment.

“Of course,” said Lady Rothborough. “If you are writing to Anne Brackenbury, will you give her my best love, as ever?”

“I can tell her that in person. I shall be there soon enough.”

“Oh yes, you are off to Marchsteads, I had forgotten. Won’t you stay a little longer, though, my dear Frances? It cannot be wise for you to travel so soon after your poor Jones’ burial. Anne would agree with me. Mourning cannot be rushed, and she was a good servant to you.”

“I have trespassed too long on your kindness, as ever,” said Lady Warde, “and Anne is expecting me. She has her grandsons to amuse, and I will be needed.”

“Those boys are horrid savages,” said Lady Rothborough. “You would be better here with us. I shall write to Anne and tell her myself that I must keep you here, for your own good, grandsons notwithstanding. Besides, who will look after you at Marchsteads? You cannot go without a maid.”

“When is Miss Jones is to be buried?” Giles asked.

“Tomorrow morning,” said Lady Rothborough. “My husband has arranged it all. She will be buried in the churchyard of St Saviours in the village, as all our estate people are.”

“You are too kind, Catherine,” murmured Lady Warde.

“You have been a great friend to us,” said Lady Rothborough. “It is the least that we could do. And you will stay. I shall write to Anne at once,” she added.

“I cannot really –” began Lady Warde.

“You should,” Giles put in. “Lady Rothborough is right. In affliction, we should never spurn our friends, though we might be tempted to.”

“One can hardly compare our situations, sir,” she said.

“She was a good servant to you,” Giles said. “And good servants deserve all our respect. My family was in mourning for a year when my mother’s maid, Nancy, died. She was a great friend to her and a second mother to me and my brother and sisters. She was not of our blood, but she was certainly part of our family. As I think Miss Jones must have been with you.”

“I really must go to Marchsteads,” said Lady Warde. “I cannot disappoint Anne.”

“She will understand,” said Lady Rothborough. “Major Vernon is quite right. Jones had been with you so long. I cannot remember a time when she was not there. It is so sad... such a wretched turn of events.” She took Lady Warde’s hand. “Please do not go, my dear Frances.”

At this moment Lord Rothborough came into the drawing room, presumably having finished his solitary port and cigar.

“Mes belles dames!” he said in greeting. “Oh, and Major Vernon! This is unexpected, and welcome. You look –”

“Please excuse my appearance,” said Giles.

Lord Rothborough gave a dismissive wave. “I am glad to see you out of bed. That is enough.”

“Rothborough, will you speak to Frances?” said Lady Rothborough. “She is determined on going after Jones’ burial tomorrow. She says she must be at Marchsteads.”

“That would be a shame,” said Lord Rothborough. “Won’t you reconsider, my Lady?”

Lady Warde shook her head, and said, “Excuse me. I would like to retire now, if I might?”

Rothborough bowed his acquiescence and she went towards the door.

Giles hauled himself up from the sofa and as he did so, his mind cleared, and he knew the moment had come to speak. A white flame of pure anger leapt up inside him. He knew the truth.

“Of course, you would like to, ma’am,” he said. “You would like to vanish and leave no tracks behind you. But it is too late for that. You must stay and face what has happened.”

She spun round and looked at him.

“What do you mean?”

“I am speaking of grief and how one deals with it. How one must find the courage to face great loss, what one does, how one conducts oneself in such circumstances. The challenge of it.”

“Your loss has been far greater than mine,” she said. “And I shall deal in my own way, thank you, sir.”

“That I would dispute,” he said. Her hand was on that locket again. He wished he could rip it from her and see what it contained. “She was like a daughter to you, I think.” He saw how her fingers tightened round the locket. He felt light-headed with excitement at being right, and at the same time the darkest despair.

“No,” she said, rather quietly.

“Of course, you will deny it,“ he said. “You have to, because if you do not, the whole house of cards will come tumbling down.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” she said, turning again towards the door. “And, circumstances aside, I do not care for your manner, sir.”

“Please do not go,” said Giles. “I have some questions that have been bothering me about you, and you could put my mind at rest if you would only answer them. It would be a kindness.”

“Catherine,” she said to Lady Rothborough. “I do think the poor gentleman is raving – he must still be delirious. Should we not send for that surgeon fellow?”

“Mr Carswell – an excellent plan,” said Giles. “If Lady Rothborough does not object?”

“I cannot,” she said. “You look very unwell, sir.”

“You ought not to have got out of bed,” remarked Rothborough, as he rang for a servant.

“You should sit down again, at least, Major Vernon,” said Lady Charlotte, coming to his side. “Please?” she added.

“Of course,” said Giles, who was glad enough to sit down, and feel Lady Charlotte’s cool hand on his forehead for a moment. He was fiery-hot, it was true, with sweat pouring down his back. He felt sure his night shirt was drenched through under his dressing gown. But, weak and assaulted though his body felt, he had an inner strength, born of necessity. If he did not accomplish this now, then he knew it would be too late.

“Oh dear Lord,” Lady Charlotte murmured.

“He is out of his wits with fever,” said Lady Warde.

“No, no,” he said, shaking his head. “My wits have never been sharper. Unfortunately for you, ma’am.”

“Is this an interview of some sort?” Lord Rothborough said.

“Yes,” said Giles. “And I insist that the lady sits down and answers my questions. And I would like a record taken of this conversation. Perhaps your secretary might join us, my Lord?”

“Yes, of course,” said Rothborough and went and gave the footman instructions.

“And I need Mr Carswell and Mrs Connolly,” Giles added.

“Catherine, I beg you, put a stop to this,” Lady Warde said, going to Lady Rothborough. “This is monstrous. I cannot believe you will let this happen. Why must I answer the questions of a madman? Please?”

“Major Vernon knows his business,” said Lord Rothborough, putting a chair down opposite the sofa. “And if you have done nothing wrong, you have nothing to fear from any questions he will put to you.”

“If I have done anything wrong, Lord Rothborough? What on earth can I have done wrong? How, sir, can you even entertain what this man is suggesting? I would have thought that you would have more consideration of the honour of a poor widow, whom your wife has always protected so faithfully.”

“Major Vernon knows his business,” said Lord Rothborough. “Why do you think I asked him here in the first place? So please, ma’am, sit, and assist him.”

Chapter Thirty-three

Felix came into the drawing room with Sukey, just as they had discussed earlier with Major Vernon.

There was then a rather bizarre interlude that could only happen at Holbroke, as fancy ices were served. Felix had no idea if he should take one or not when offered the tray, for fear of offending Lady Rothborough. It was certainly the strangest interrogation scene that he had ever witnessed, but Major Vernon had been insistent.

Major Vernon was half-reclined on a sofa, his face dangerously flushed, looking gaunt and wild-eyed.

“Have you got everything?” he murmured, while Felix took his pulse. Felix nodded. “Just as we discussed?”

“Are you still sure about this?” Felix said, not much liking the violent colour of the Major’s complexion nor his hoarse, breathy tone. It was entirely uncharacteristic. “It can wait a day or two.”

“I might be dead by then,” he said.

“Unlikely,” said Felix. “But you are prolonging your recovery by this.”

“If that is the price, then –” Major Vernon, said with a shrug.

“At least take some of your ice,” Felix said. Major Vernon obeyed him.

Felix glanced over to Lady Warde who was sitting a little distance away with Lady Rothborough. All her her gestures were a pantomime of wronged womanhood, with one hand on her breast, the other clasping at Lady Rothborough’s hand. The latter looked from her and then to Major Vernon, obviously painfully conflicted as to the justice of the case.

“She will probably feign illness,” said Major Vernon. “Ah, look, here we go –” Lady Warde was now weeping uncontrollably into Lady Rothborough’s lap. Lady Rothborough looked mortified. “Carswell, do you think you could disentangle her from my Lady?”

“I will help you,” murmured Sukey, and together they gently prised her off her, and managed to get to the chair that Lord Rothborough had placed in front of Major Vernon’s sofa. She struggled though, with a wiry resistance that Felix had become familiar with when dealing with hardened members of Northminster’s criminal society. And just as they inevitably did, she protested loudly.

“Major Vernon,” said Lady Rothborough, going over to him. “This is becoming an abomination. She is clearly –”

“I apologise for the apparent brutality, ma’am,” said Major Vernon. “But it is necessary. And as your husband has said, if she has nothing to hide, why must she object so strongly to answering a few reasonable questions?”

“I beg you sir, then, do it as quickly as you can, if you really must!” said Lady Rothborough and went and sat at the far end of the room with her daughters.

“I will do my best,” said Vernon.

He moved to the edge of the sofa and leant forward, his gaze fixed on Lady Warde.

“I am giving you a chance to find peace, ma’am,” he said, gently and quietly. “That is what this is about.”

“Peace?” she said. “How dare you!”

“We were talking of grief earlier, and the challenges it brings. Like you I have just suffered a great blow. I know the pain of a fresh wound. It brings us to strange places. Yes?”

“It has made you mad, certainly sir.”

“Mad with grief, yes. Angry, yes. You know what I am talking about.”

“As I said before, our cases are quite different sir. Eliza was not –”

“But she was,” said Major Vernon. “And that is the key to all this. What is that about your neck, ma’am?”

“This?” Her hand touched the locket.

“You always wear it.”

“Yes.”

“An act of sentiment, not vanity. I cannot accuse you of that, can I?”

“No,” she said.

“Might I see it?”

“I would rather not take it off.”

“And would you like to explain why?” She shook her head. “As I thought. Oh well, we shall have to go the long route after all. But I know where it is we are going, and what the conclusion of this is, Lady Warde. There is no avoiding it. It is all over.”